


Midterm

by MagpieMinx (CardinalFox)



Series: ...Then Still I Would Love You. [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Everyone is Annoyed, F/M, First Time, Inability to share feelings, Literally everyone - Freeform, No of course not because if they shut up the galaxy would have been conquered already, No one can get their shit together, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Really can they never shut up, Sass, Snark, So much beating around the bush that the bush probably got destroyed in the process, When in doubt throw towels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6950932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardinalFox/pseuds/MagpieMinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6090745/chapters/13960420">Crash Course</a> regarding what happened when feelings were first aired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midterm

When you hear the knock on the door, you pause to look at it, nonplussed.  Who would be knocking on your door at 2300 hours?  You’ve been at Starkiller long enough to have passing familiarity with a few people, but in all honesty, you’ve been too busy to attempt cultivating anything resembling a friendship, and certainly not the kind of friendship that would allow for unannounced visits this late in the evening.  You finish pulling the regulation undershirt over your head and scoop up the damp, post-shower towel from your bed, not wanting to sleep on clammy sheets later.  You sling the towel over your forearm as you step past your boots to the door.

You pause again, debating whether to open the door at all.  The last time you were naïve enough to open the door without figuring out who might be on the other side was the very first week of classes at the Academy as a teenager.  You were dragged out and hazed the entire night as per tradition, and since then you typically don’t open the door to anyone after 2000 hours unless you knew they were coming ahead of time.

While you’re weighing the merits of pretending to be asleep already versus asking the person to identify themselves via the intercom panel, the person knocks again.  It’s a bit of an unusual knock, less aggressive than it is commanding, a crisp rapping of the knuckles against the steel.  The style of knocking is similar to your own, but more importantly, it gives you a suspicion as to who, exactly, might knock at your door at 2303 hours without prior notification.  Your fingers fly up to the panel to unlock and open the door, and it slides open.

“Sir?” you ask, because it is, in fact, General Hux standing outside your door.  Surprisingly, or maybe not so much, he’s still fully dressed in his uniform, and for a moment you’re embarrassed at being caught in just your undershirt and the optional cold-weather leggings you wear beneath your uniform trousers.  Together, they make for comfortable sleepwear, and they shorten the amount of time you spend getting dressed in the morning after your alarm goes off.

“Lieutenant,” he answers, and then there’s an awkward silence that you have no idea how to break.  It’s obvious enough that he has something he wants to say considering he’s sought you out like this, in your quarters and at this hour, but he looks down at you with a face as unreadable as the one he wore when you apprehended that not-technician and you can’t begin to guess what it is.  The moment wears on and on, and you’re trying to think of something to say when he speaks.

“I need to discuss something with you,” he says, glances dubiously down the empty corridor with narrowed eyes before he turns back to you and adds, “Privately.”  He watches you intently, carefully, like he’s looking for something in your face, but you have no idea what it is.

“Come in, sir.”  You step aside, favoring action over trying to figure out why he’s staring at you so fixedly, confident that all will be explained.  He passes you in a single stride and then stands in the center of your quarters, surveying your personal space.  

There’s a desk and chair against the far wall, the door to your narrow bathroom to the right of the desk, the wardrobe and your bed pushed against the wall to the left.  The open floor in the center of the room isn’t quite long enough for you to lay down, the frame of your bed and the opposite close enough for you to touch both at once if you did.  It’s cramped, even on days when you’re feeling particularly tolerant.  General Hux dwarfs the space by himself, but as you step away from the door and it finally slides shut behind you, the room becomes borderline claustrophobic.  

“Your quarters are smaller than I realized,” General Hux says with no small amount of distaste.  You understand why he’s likely saying it, his current quarters were probably allotted a downright luxurious amount of space when they were built, but still you smile.  You wonder idly (and with great amusement) what his quarters looked like back when he was a lieutenant.  Lieutenants’ quarters are relatively small and typically shared, but even so, designated quarters with space specifically allotted for two people will always be bigger than a repurposed broom closet.

“It’s sufficient,” you say with a shrug he doesn’t see, and then elaborate when he turns to give you an incredulous look.  “All I really do is sleep here.”

Another awkward pause occurs while you wait for General Hux to either respond or pass on to whatever business it is that brought him to your door at this hour.  He does neither, simply stares expectantly at you and fills your room effortlessly with his air of command and… confusion.  His head tilts ever so slightly after a moment as he looks down at you, but you still have no idea what he could be here to tell you.  

“Sir… why are you here?” you ask tentatively, fear suddenly seizing you by the throat as you twine the fingers of your free hand into the towel over your forearm.  Is he here to terminate your position?  Why would he?  You’d thought he was pleased-

“I have a proposition for you,” he declares, tugging at one glove with the fingers of the opposite hand.  The vagueness of the statement does not alleviate your fears.

“Proposition?” you repeat hesitantly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.  A proposition could be good or it could be bad.  Or it could be both, as many things in life tend to be, but you won’t know until you hear more about exactly what this ‘proposition’ is.

“Indeed,” he answers, his hands dropping to his sides and disappearing behind the edges of his coat.  He’s still and immovable, as if he’s been carved from ice or stone, immutable in the face of your apprehensive uncertainty.  You wonder if you’re hiding your emotion too well, but General Hux has always seen right through you, no matter how well you thought you were managing your expression.

“What... is it?” you press, hoping for clarification and trying your best to restrain your rising frustration at General Hux’s refusal to be more forthcoming with information.  He  _ can’t _ be unaware of your anxiety over the issue, he would have considered it before bringing this up at all.  You consciously loosen your fingers from where they’re tangled in the towel over your wrist, hoping he hasn’t noticed that your knuckles had gone white with the force of your grip on the cloth.

“Given the nature of our relationship, I’m certain it’s quite obvious,” he says in a very matter-of-fact fashion, and your confusion increases tenfold.  The nature of your relationship?  It’s strictly professional, with some aspects of mentorship, but that makes nothing obvious to you unless he’s planning to put you on the fast track to promotion and slot you into an administrative command position.

“Sir?” you inquire, because you don’t want to be promoted and have to assume an entirely new set of duties.  It’s not that you’re not ready for it (you’re confident in your ability to handle whatever you need to), but you don’t particularly want to leave your position as General Hux’s aide.  You wind one end of the towel around your wrist to distract yourself, but General Hux doesn’t so much as twitch while you fidget.

“I understand that it’s inappropriate and against regulations, but I believe that we could keep our personal and professional interests separate,” he continues, and suddenly you’re not sure what he’s discussing at all, only sure that what you thought it might be is very, very wrong.  Inappropriate?  Against regulations?  Personal and professional?

“What?” is your eloquent response to that as you try to review what might have been construed as crossing the lines.  Is it the food?  Or is it continuing to work after your duty hours?  Could it be the sparring?  You let go of the towel and it loosens around your wrist, slides over your skin as your hand pulls it almost of its own volition and then slips from your wrist to dangle and sway from your hand.

“I would like to develop our…  _ personal relationship _ ,” he says with meaningful emphasis, lifting his eyebrows when he comes to the last two words, and you draw a blank.  He mentioned regulations and your personal relationship being inappropriate, so that implies that he should have wanted to break the “personal” relationship, not develop it.  You press one fist against your stomach, the hand with the towel falling to your side so that it trails on the floor.

“Personal relationship?” you repeat, wondering what he even means by ‘develop’.  Does that mean you’ll be taking turns picking up lunch and dinner?  Or that you’ll be regular workout partners from now on?  Part of your mind notes that your towel is on the floor and you should gather it into your hands, but you’re too distracted trying to parse General Hux’s meanings into something you can understand.  You’re staring at him without seeing him, mostly just aware of the breadth of his chest, neatly framed by the lapels of his coat.

“Don’t be so dense,” he says, irritation suddenly flooding his voice, and heat coils angrily in your throat and then goes straight to your head.  Why won’t he speak plainly instead of beating so obliquely around the bush?

“General Hux, sir, permission to speak freely?” you ask, trying to keep yourself from grinding your teeth, enjoying some moderate success in the endeavor.  You try again to put together the pieces he’s given you into something recognizable, but fail as they refuse to add up to anything plausible.  Frustrated, you flick the towel up and into your other hand, balling it up and pressing it between your palms, digging in your fingers and squeezing in an effort to control your temper.

“You needn’t ask for permission now, but permission granted,” he says, still sounding unjustifiably irritated.  Your annoyance peaks at such unasked for stress and you shoot him a venomous glare.  He’s still your superior and he might have a bit of a soft spot for you, but that doesn’t mean you can freely speak your mind.   _ Of course _ you still have to ask for permission, no matter how much he says it isn’t necessary at the moment.

“Sir, what in the actual fuck.”  The phrase explodes out of your mouth, delivered much sharper than you intended it to be, but the vexation you’re trying to contain makes you reckless, helps you rationalize snapping at him.

“You’re not interested then?” he asks, looking partly taken aback and a little hurt.  It’s only once you see his face, see the way his eyes have narrowed and his mouth tightened in a way that’s less displeasure than it is actual  _ hurt _ , his expression full of  _ rejection _ , that you understand.  The realization leaves you with a sense of vertigo, as if up and down and left and right have suddenly all been mixed into a new set of directions you have no idea how to navigate and gravity no longer applies in quite the same way.

“No, it’s not that, I just didn’t-  Are you even attract-  Oh my fucking-”  You stop your incomplete sputtering before you launch into a long, blue streak of swearing, reminding yourself that General Hux probably doesn’t appreciate your current reaction to his attempt at telling you how he feels, regardless of the level of your surprise.

“Express yourself more coherently, if you would,” he demands, still sounding testy, but you’re too wrapped up in your thoughts to acknowledge his anxiety (you’re fairly sure that it is, in fact, anxiety) as you turn to stare at the wall for a moment.  The balled up towel in your hands gets twisted as the words spring to your tongue, feeling like they’ve been there for much longer than you knew.

“I just realized that you wouldn’t be asking if you weren’t attracted to me.”  It’s easier to say it to the wall than it is to his face, but you can’t avoid looking him in the eye forever, so you take a deep breath and attempt to find your courage.  Your gaze slides shyly back over to him first, your eyes flicking up to find his face though your stomach is doing a remarkable impression of an out-of-control TIE fighter.

“You’re correct,” he says, his expression impassive, but there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes as he looks at you, and you’re willing to take a wild guess and call it hope.  Whatever it is, it makes your heart skip and thunder against your ribs, makes you hold your breath and swallow hard as you desperately attempt to string some words together into an appropriate sentence.

“So let me just-  Let me make sure I understand what is going on here,” you say, looking down at the towel and hating it because you want to talk with your hands, but you have no place to put the damn thing, “You, General Hux, are interested in a personal relationship with me,  _ your aide _ .”  It seems important to lay out what’s happening plainly rather than assuming anything, or worse, jumping to conclusions.  You’re already five steps behind General Hux, you can’t waste any more time figuring out where he’s going while you’re playing catch-up.

“I would prefer a simple yes or no rather than all this beating around the bush,” he grunts instead of confirming, averting his eyes in turn, his gaze settling on the foot of your bed as he frowns.

“Says he who never actually asked the question.  Pot, meet kettle,” you retort sharply, glaring at him for a long moment before you toss the balled up towel past him at the open door of your bathroom.  General Hux flinches away from the flying bundle, which hits the frame of the bathroom door and falls to the floor with a soft  _ fwump _ .

“Is this  _ necessary _ ?” he demands, leveling a fearsome glower at the towel before he turns that same look on you.  There’s another long moment, this one filled with an aggressive, tension-charged silence that snaps between the two of you as you scowl back at him.

“How long has this been going on?”  You don’t mean to sound like you’re interrogating him as you settle your hands on your hips, but there are edges to the words anyway and he straightens up and somehow gets a little taller, bristling.

“It’s not something that happens all at once,” he snaps defensively, his shoulders squaring as if he’s preparing to fight you.  You’re suddenly seized by the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this has gotten.  What was supposed to be a confession of feelings has turned into an argument, and here the two of you are, escalating it like a pair of idiots.  It takes more effort than you would ever admit to not to put your hand over your mouth and start giggling, though whether that’s from nerves or the actual comedy of the situation, you couldn’t say.

“No, but how long have you known it wasn’t strictly professional?” you clarify, purposefully softening your tone and allowing yourself to at least smile.  You let your shoulders drop, wonder what you should do with your hands.  Isn’t showing the wrist supposed to be a sign of submission or vulnerability?  You’re not sure how to do that without being obvious about it though, and end up idly rubbing at your wrist with your thumb.  It’s still exposed, so it must count, and anyway, General Hux looks away from you as his shoulders drop a fraction too.

“A standard month or so,” he grudgingly admits, sounding as if he doesn’t want to divulge this information at all, doesn’t want to even acknowledge that he has feelings.

“A month,” you repeat flatly, wondering how many times in a single conversation General Hux can blindside you.  Are you this dense?  Or is he this good at concealing his emotions?  Is it both?  But if you were truly stupid, he wouldn’t be putting up with you at all.  Or is this an opposites attract kind of thing?  Sadly, you’ve never seen any evidence for the opposites attract trope, generally the opposite is true.  Birds of a feather and all that.

“I had to consider the ramifications,” General Hux answers as he assumes parade rest for lack of anything else to do, “How best to approach you, what the parameters of the relationship would be, the consequences and repercussions from our potential relationship on the rest of the base.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I just-  I never expected this.”  You press at your eyes with the fingers of one hand, not because you have a headache, but because it feels like maybe if you press hard enough you can shove all the loud, rattling pieces of your thought process back together and comprehend the reality of what’s happening. 

“Why is that?” he asks, and you open one eye and look up at him and see him hovering close, one hand extended toward you as if he means to pull your hand away from your face.  As you watch, he curls his fingers into a fist, lets it drop to his side, and you sigh as you let your hand fall from your face.

“Because you’re the dedicated General Hux, devoted General of the First Order, role model for all of us mere mortals on the ground,” you tell him, unsure of whether or not he’s going to understand.

“You of all people would know that I’m just a man,” he responds flatly, demonstrating that no, he doesn’t understand at all.

“Yes, but-  No, no, nevermind, just-  Forget it,” you say, waving a hand as if to sweep away the subject because you sincerely doubt it would be worth spending the next fifteen minutes discussing it.  That and you would rather discuss the relevant item at hand, that thing called  _ feelings _ that General Hux has suddenly broadsided you with repeatedly since this conversation began.

“Forget what?  What are you getting at?” he demands as you realize that while General Hux has essentially declared his intentions, you haven’t so much as paused to consider your own yet.

“We can talk about it later, if you still feel so inclined, sir,” you answer automatically, forcing your hands to drop to your sides and relax while mentally you scramble to organize your own sentiments.  Do you feel the same way as he does?  If you don’t, could you?  It’s against regulations and probably General Hux intends to separate the personal from the professional, but it would be… something, to have a relationship with someone so powerful.

“I feel inclined now,” he suggests, looking all too interested in any topic of conversation that doesn’t involve his emotions or yours.  It could be that he needs some ego fluffing in the wake of his confession as much as the continued potential for rejection since you still haven’t given him a real answer yet.  You resist the urge to roll your eyes, not wanting him to interpret the gesture incorrectly.

“I don’t,” you say briefly, too wrapped up in wondering how you would hide  _ that _ kind of relationship.  The two of you spend nearly all your time together as it is, so logistically, it’s more than feasible, and you’re sure that General Hux is more than capable of concealing his affections, but can you?  No matter how you spin it, you find yourself certain of General Hux and uncertain of yourself.  You  _ think _ you can keep it under wraps, but given General Hux’s ability to compartmentalize, you’re not sure if it will be enough.

“By later you mean..?” he prompts, looking for a clarification, his head tilting inquisitively, all his considerable attention focused almost uncomfortably on you.

“I mean  _ later _ ,” you answer, annoyance leaking into your tone and making you sound severe, “Not now.  Not five minutes from now.  Preferably  _ not tonight at all _ .”

“You’re implying that you mean to say yes,” he says, sounding subtly hopeful, and your entire thought process comes to a sudden, crystal clear halt, as if time has stopped.  Your perspective suddenly shifted, you realize that your only question is ‘how’, not ‘why’.  You were always honest with yourself that General Hux was a man anyone would be lucky to have, and as fate would have it, apparently, he’s chosen  _ you _ .

“I don’t even know what I’m saying yes to, sir, could you elaborate?” you say and you didn’t mean to sound like  _ that _ much of a smart ass, but as far as you’re concerned, he probably deserves it.  Considering all the emotions you’ve had to deal with since he walked in and turned your world upside down?  You mentally erase the word ‘probably’ and pencil in ‘definitely’.

“Don’t be contrary for the sake of it,” he says with no small amount of exasperation, his nose wrinkling with displeasure as he frowns.

“You know, I thought you were going to  _ fire _ me,” you inform him honestly, and he stares at you, eyes wide, and actually looks shocked.  You suspect that it’s been a long time since he was shocked enough to register a visible response to it.  It takes effort to hide your smugness at having gotten such a reaction out of him, and you distract yourself by crossing your arms over your chest.

“You can’t be serious?” he says after a moment, still watching you as if you’ve grown a second head sometime in the last thirty seconds.

“I had no idea what was even going on, and you weren’t-  Damnit, sir, just ask me already!”  The exclamation comes out unnecessarily aggressive, but your nerves are finally starting to get the better of you.  General Hux clears his throat and then launches into his ‘proposal’.

“Lieutenant, I’m-  I would like to pursue a personal relationship with you.  You understand that if you agree, it will not affect your professional pursuits?”  His eyes are still wide, but with something besides surprise.  There’s an intensity to his gaze, and he’s leaning toward you subtly, as if he’s only just holding himself back.

“Was that last part really necessary?” you ask, wondering what he’s holding himself back from doing.  He wants to do something, clearly, but whether that’s embracing you, kissing you, or possibly violently pinning you against your door, you’re not sure.  You want to find out, but your mouth apparently had other ideas.

“It’s a yes or no question,” he says, frowning and rocking back down onto his heels.

“Technically, it’s two questions,” you correct, captivated for a moment by the thought that he legitimately felt he needed to hold himself back.  You’re also slightly disappointed that he’s no longer poised to pounce like he was only a moment ago.

“Do you have an answer or do you not?” he demands, his voice sharp, but strangely without anger.  Anxiety has made a reappearance, and you scold yourself silently for leaving him hanging like this.

“Yes, my answer is yes!” you exclaim, almost springing for him before you realize that he might not appreciate that.  Surprisingly, his hands twitch as if he were going to catch you before you stopped yourself, and everything stalls and comes to an awkward halt, the moment lost.

The two of you stand there, staring at each other while you try to decide what to do now that you’re finally both on the same page.  The obvious thing would be a kiss, but you’re a little too far away from each other to enact that without having to think about it before it happens.  General Hux remains silent, staring intently at you as if he has no idea exactly what to do with you now that he has you, and you can’t help pointing out the elephant in the room.

“I assume this is the part where we kiss,” you remark, your tone so dry that it scrapes.

“You talk too much,” he scoffs even as he steps forward so that he’s toe to toe with you and is suddenly somehow even taller than he already is.

“Pot, sir,” you comment wryly, reaching out hesitantly reaching out to rest your fingertips against his chest, still not entirely sure if you’re not, somehow, dreaming.

“Why aren’t I the kettle?” he inquires suddenly as he wraps warm fingers around your wrist, settling your palm against the smoothness of his uniform as he pulls your hand up toward his collar.  The move has the added effect of forcing you to step closer if you don’t want to reach so far to rest your hand on his shoulder.

“What?”  You settle your hand at the back of his neck instead, tugging him down toward you, and he bends obligingly.  His hands curve around your sides, then slide down to circle the smallest part of your waist, gently encouraging your body to rest against his.  He’s real and solid and warm under your touch as you lean against him like this, and it’s already beyond anything you’ve ever dared to imagine.

“Coffee is made in pots, tea is made in kettles,” he notes with the smuggest smirk you have ever seen, but his lips are close enough to reach if you stand on tiptoe.

“With all due respect, sir, shut up,” you mutter irritably, pulling his head down as you rise up to meet him.

The kiss is less intense than you were expecting given the lead up to it.  It’s soft, considered, his lips moving slow and firm against yours.  Your eyes flutter shut and then the two of you are moving together.  He adjusts his angle and you shift to perfect it, and then he presses you just a little closer and your back arches and bends to accommodate him.  One of his hands finds its way to the small of your back, bracing and supporting you, and you pull just a little harder with the hand at the back of his neck, silently asking for more.  He doesn’t respond to that request, and within seconds you’ve lost patience with how gently he’s handling you.

“I’ve done this before, you know.  I’m not going to break.”

“ _ Lieutenant _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I tried to get into the smut, but then it just got very difficult, so no smut here. I'll leave that up to your imaginations and personal kinks because tbh I feel like nothing I write could ever live up to anything y'all could come up with. If you really want smut, please go read [Insubordinate by libertyelyot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6229342/chapters/14273146) because that is an A+ piece of smut let me tell you. Also because libertyelyot is an excellent person who left comments on several chapters of Crash Course. I am clearly in no way biased.
> 
> Anyway, so most of my commentary is honestly in the tags, but like??? They??? Cannot??? Shut up?????? Also, please throw a towel at your crush/significant other/datemate/whathaveyou and tell me the results. And no one has the ability to actually honestly discuss their feelings, so that really doesn't help their case. They just keep getting sidetracked.
> 
> Speaking of sidetracked, guess who hasn't been sidetracked? Me. I'm not sidetracked. I'm just getting blindsided by life and school, so my posting schedule is probably majorly screwed. The AU companion chapters will be going up sometime in the next two weeks, but I really can't promise a time or date at this point. Still, fingers crossed, I'm hoping for an every other week posting schedule. Anyway, enough rambling.
> 
> Comments and kudos are super super appreciated! Tell me something you loved, copy-paste a line you really liked, or tell me something that made you laugh. I love to hear all your reactions!!! <3


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